Chapter 39

John climbed down from the control bridge and crossed to the living area. With the frantic drumming going on as background music, he went over the plan three times with Yani until he was certain the Chase Islander knew what he was supposed to do when. He assembled the pieces in the order they were to be used.

He wound the spring in Lieutenant Bartlett’s portable victrola and placed the record on the turntable. “As soon I release the drop-doors, you start this playing.” He showed him how to place the needle in the record groove. The phonograph was positioned so its speaker was next to the open microphone. “Don’t move anything,” he warned. He rehearsed the magic words Yani would say, just before he started playing the record. Yani had mastered them after two tries, and John Frum began to get dressed.

When the sun had set completely, the drumming had settled down to a monotonous and oppressive beat. “Now is the time,” John told his assistant. “What this party needs is some fireworks.”

He pointed a flare pistol skyward, inclined it slightly toward the island, and fired. The projectile streaked upward and with a muffled bang the sky was filled with a red glow.

The drum stopped in mid-beat and faces tilted upward. He could almost hear the natives gasp in astonishment. No one had ever seen a red star fall from the Heavens before. Surely something terrifying was going to happen. Everyone was frozen in place, even Aboo. John fired a second red flare just as the first was about to sputter out. It was more fear-inspiring than the first.

John operated the manual release mechanism for the big door at the prow of the landing craft. He allowed it to drop with a loud splash that broke the stillness invoked by the red lights.

On signal, he heard Yani say into the microphone, “Kilibob pagow!” It was followed by the scraping and hissing of a needle finding the groove at the beginning of a record.

John fired his flare pistol into the air one more time, and there was a tracer-like streak over the heads of the people on the beach. But this time it ended in a loud "pop," followed by the brilliance of a phosphorous flare. To the utter astonishment of the assemblage, the bright light seemed to hover over the beach. They could not see the little parachute that slowed its descent, nor would it have made any difference if they did. They were only aware of the bright blue-white light that banished the night and left them looking wide-eyed at each other in disbelief.

Immediately, like a school of fish executing a turn in unison, they all fell on their knees or bellies in the sand, cringing in dread. The flare would last just about five minutes, and John had another loaded flare pistol, which he stuck in the back of his belt.

While the loudspeakers blared Gene Krupa’s version of “Stompin’ at the Savoy” at full volume, Kilibob emerged from the darkness of the landing craft on to the ramp. He was fully illuminated by the scintillating glare of the U.S. Navy issue Roman candle.

He stood at attention dressed in Lieutenant Bartlett’s bright white Annapolis graduation uniform, with white hat, belt and gloves. His gold buttons sparkled. In front of him, he held the ceremonial sword by its handle, vertically with both hands. The bright, chrome-plated blade caught the light in such a way, that he seemed to be holding a beam of light in his hands. He looked neither to the left nor the right, but stared straight ahead at his sword and the beach in front of him.

The tide was all the way out, so there were only inches of water in this part of the lagoon, he walked as though he were the honor guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington. The flare floated on the evening breeze and he headed straight for McDuff tied between the bamboo poles. The missionary’s arms were now stretched out from his sides, held tautly by the vine ropes.

John quickened his steps as soon as he was on dry ground. No one moved a muscle. There was hardly a twitch on the beach. The phonograph record reached its end and there were the usual scratchy noises. No one noticed.

Everyone saw Kilibob stand before the helpless Big Man Duff. He raised the sword and with two strokes, he cut through the rope-vines effortlessly. The man fell to the ground just as the parachute on the phosphorous flare caught fire and it fell into the sea.

The missionary was conscious but weak. “Go to the boat, now!” John commanded. He helped him to his feet in the darkness. With both the drumming stopped and the flare gone, the kanakas began to recover their senses. There was a murmur of confusion and Aboo was giving orders. John was sure they were going to be pounced upon. He pushed McDuff in the direction of the boat and reached around to the back of his belt for the flare pistol.

In the darkness, Aboo thrashed about with his walking stick. It struck John’s hand just as he pulled the trigger. Instead of going skyward, the projectile ripped into Aboo.

Aboo clutched at his chest where a great pain had suddenly developed. He fell to the ground, atop the flare, with his eyes and his pandanus leaf clothes ablaze.

During the chaos that followed, John and McDuff made a run for the water. A huge figure raced toward them in the darkness. It was Koko, the giant Hawaiian drummer. With a cry of surrender, he threw down his immense body at the water’s edge. He was prostrating himself with arms outstretched to where the echoes of Gene Krupa had been pulsating only moments before. His timing, however, was such that John and McDuff tripped over his huge carcass, somersaulting them ass over teakettle into the shallow water.

It was a moonless night, but the two of them managed to get back on their feet, and then safely back on the landing craft. Yani was waiting and he pushed the button that winched the landing ramp on battery power to the closed position.

John Bartlett collapsed out of breath. He looked up at his two smiling companions and said, “How the hell does Fairbanks do this so often, and stay alive?”